


The Neighbors

by marshmallons



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallons/pseuds/marshmallons
Summary: December, 1919.The Great War has ended, and Ludwig Beilschmidt finds himself neighbors with Feliciano Vargas, who finds a new reason every week to knock on his door and call his name in a way that sets Ludwig's nerves aflame. A tentative relationship sparks between them, as does the beginning of a new decade, rife with tension and decadence. The same sequence of events that united them in Munich threaten to break them apart.
Relationships: Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who would have guessed I would be writing Hetalia on the cusp of 2020? Certainly not me. Let's kick off the new decade with a bang!

_December, 1919_

_Munich, Germany_

Feliciano had whittled it himself.

“It’s an advent calendar,” he had exclaimed when he first appeared on Ludwig's doorstep. "For the holidays!"

He brandished it with such a proud grin that Ludwig couldn't bring himself to comment on the splinters that needed sanding. He simply minded his fingers as he took the advent calendar from Feliciano's hands, noting the bandages on his fingers— the casualties of novice woodworking. 

_It resembles a building_ , Ludwig thought. An apartment building with twenty-five small doors, each lovingly hand-painted a different color. 

As rough as the edges of the sawed boards were, and as poorly sanded as it was, it was equally, if not doubly, beautiful in its artistry. It was clear that Feliciano had taken great care in painting the delicate tendrils of creeping ivy along the wall, as well as the potted plants in the windowsills, and individual roof tiles in an ombré pattern of red and terracotta.

Feliciano’s inquisitive gaze met his over the decorative chimney.

“Do you like it, Ludwig?”

“Yes, Feliciano, of course.”

Feliciano’s warm brown eyes brightened, crinkling at the corners as his mouth spread into a wide smile. Ludwig cleared his throat and matched his smile with an apologetic grimace. “But I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you. This is quite the surprise.”

Feliciano waved a hand in the air. His bandaged fingers fluttered. "Don't worry about it! I wasn’t expecting anything in return. You helped me move in all that time ago and I thought it would be nice. You are my friend, and it's one of your traditions here, isn't it? You open one of the little doors every day?" 

"That's correct," Ludwig said and added, quite seriously, “I will owe you twenty-five presents now.” 

Although he had hardly smiled in years, the corners of his mouth twitched when Feliciano's infectious laughter ricocheted off the narrow corridor walls and echoed into the stairwell. 

“Don't be silly, Ludwig,” he chided. "It's not that nice."

And although Feliciano had called him _Ludwig_ ever since the day he moved in, when Ludwig had helped him open the door to his apartment, the door with the sticky lock that he had to jam the key into just right, and introduced himself over the rusted threshold, the way that Feliciano called him by his name never failed to make strange heat pool in the pit of his stomach.

Every week, like clockwork, ever since he had moved into the building two months prior, Feliciano had found a reason to knock on his door, stare up at him with those fawning honey-brown eyes that made Ludwig’s mouth run dry and his palms damp with sweat, and say _hello, Ludwig!_ in his Italian-singsonged German.

Something over Ludwig's shoulder caught his attention. The crescendo of the _Adagietto_ of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. Feliciano stretched onto the tips of his toes to peer into the living room, where the quiet stream of music flooded from the phonogram. His eyes went wide.

"Oh,” he breathed. “I can't remember the last time I've heard something so beautiful." 

“Would you like to come inside?” Ludwig asked, quietly, even as the thrum of his pulse threatened to deafen him. “I can make coffee—”

“Do you have real coffee?”

“Unfortunately not. It's only chicory root from the last rations.”

"I would _love_ to have coffee, Ludwig."

He stepped closer, one foot over the threshold, and Ludwig took one step back. Feliciano's shoulder grazed his arm as he whistled past, and he headed directly to the gramophone. 

The door swung open on rusted hinges with a noisy creak and Feliciano promptly stepped inside. Ludwig watched him explore the living room from the corner of his eye, setting down the advent calendar in the meantime. Feliciano paused in front of the secretaire, glancing curiously at the papers Ludwig had left scattered, and skimmed the display of books and shellac records on the bookshelf. The gramophone stood next to the bookcase and he seemed to take a special interest in it.

"I owned one of these before. Verdi and Puccini were always my favourites." He brushed his finger tenderly over the shellac record. “I can't remember the last time I listened to Mahler.” 

“Do you play any instruments yourself?” 

“I used to play the guitar. I had to sell it during the war.”

The studio apartment was small enough for Ludwig to observe Feliciano from the kitchenette as he set the grain coffee to percolate. Feliciano's back was to him as he skimmed the display of books and records in the bookshelf. Ludwig watched the tapered line of his back as he reached for a record. The plaid brown tweed of his matching vest and trousers, stylish in 1916 but now slightly out of fashion, was well-cared for, but frayed with age, and the plain white button-up underneath was just a size too small, nearly imperceptible, save for the way that the cuffs rode up one inch from Feliciano’s slender wrists. His shoes, however old, had the soft sheen of worn, well-cared for leather. 

“Ludwig, can I please change the record?” Feliciano asked, turning at an angle that brought his profile into light— a sliver of pale winter sunlight from the window illuminated the slope of his nose, the curve of his full cheeks and ovular jawline. Loose curls concealed his eyes from view, but Ludwig felt the weight of his gaze.

“Of course,” he answered, and cleared his throat, surprised by the softness of his own voice. “Please, go ahead.”

It wasn't long before he picked up the sound of Bizet, so quiet at first, he nearly missed it. He tensed as he recognized the opening strains of the French opera, wary that the sound would carry through the thin walls. Foreign music hadn't been banned as it had been in Austria— but the sound of it made him nervous. He very nearly expected apoplectic Herr Vogts to pound on his door in a fit of rage at any minute.

As he poured the ersatz coffee, he worried his lip and wondered how to politely tell Feliciano that he had chosen one of the few records he intentionally didn't play. But as he approached Feliciano, the question fell from his thoughts at the sight of him seated on the divan. His expression was so serene, Ludwig might have wondered if he had fallen asleep right in his living room, if his eyes hadn't opened and become bright upon the sight of the two steaming mugs in Ludwig's hands. He graciously accepted one and sighed, exclaiming, 

“Thank you, Ludwig! Oh, the coffee would be _so_ perfect with the surprise inside the calendar...Open all the doors, Ludwig, won’t you?”

“All of them?”

“Yes! They are so tiny, after all, they can’t hold a lot!”

Ludwig suppressed a smile and obliged. He carried the calendar to the table and opened the first door, which contained a single walnut, and the second, which held a pile of raisins the height of his thumbnail. By the time he reached the twenty-fifth door, he had amassed a small pile of walnuts, raisins, a single dried apricot, and to his surprise, he opened the door to find a small square of chocolate. 

It was the door Feliciano had been eagerly anticipating. He clapped his hands in excitement, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he beamed. 

“Chocolate, Ludwig! Oh, isn’t it a wonderful surprise?" His fingers tightened around the mug, clasping it tightly in his enthusiasm. "I love chocolate and I thought it would be _wonderful_ for a present. I haven't had chocolate in so long, because of the war and now with the rations...I was so lucky to find it in the marketplace! I knew as soon as I saw it that I wanted to share it with you.”

"Thank you, Feliciano. It's very kind, although you shouldn't have..." Ludwig's cheeks darkened with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment. "Please, share it with me. I insist."

When he divided the bar in two, it was no mistake that Feliciano’s piece was bigger by a third. The way his eyes lit with delight when he nibbled at the corner of his piece made Ludwig’s sliver of chocolate taste all the sweeter.

Feliciano sighed and licked his lips, as though to catch a last trace of chocolate. Ludwig watched and couldn't bring himself to look away from the cupid's bow of his upper lip. Beneath the table, his hands twitched and tensed on his thighs, impatient to touch, to connect.

He reached for a cigarette instead and smoked as Feliciano filled the comfortable silence with easy chatter. He talked about nothing and everything in equal measure, occasionally breaking into questions that Ludwig could answer with an easy, _'Yes, Feliciano,'_ or _'No, I'm afraid not.'_

It was a long time before Ludwig began to register the soft scratch of the empty record in between the gaps of his words, and longer still before Feliciano seemed to notice as well. He watched, remaining seated, as Feliciano danced out of his seat to turn off the phonograph. He paused, looking lost in thought, and traced a fingertip over the slow-spinning record. 

He turned with a small, shy smile.

“Ludwig, do you think I can come to listen to music again tomorrow?”

Ludwig met Feliciano’s gaze and his pulse resumed the same loud pounding as before, the same heavy, deafening pounding that took over him each time he heard the familiar, polite rap of Feliciano's knuckles against his door, the same one that took over him when Feliciano called him by his name. 

When Ludwig smiled, it met his eyes.

“I would like that very much, Feliciano.”


	2. Chapter 2

The backs of Ludwig’s knuckles were raw and chapped, bitten by the cold. In the crook of his left arm, he cradled the paper bag of groceries to his chest, and with his right hand, he drew the thin, badly worn lapels of his coat closer over his sternum. 

He had left his apartment at first light. The weather had been bleak at six in the morning and had only seemed to grow fouler as he spent the day in queue, shivering, protecting his ration card from pickpockets, and bearing the brunt of the cold in exchange for a measly few groceries and, to his immense pleasure, a clutch of eggs and pat of butter.

Food remained in short supply in the city, and with every heavy step, it weighed on his mind how he would stretch his dwindling measure of dried peas, sprouted potatoes, and mealy apples until the next rationing. 

Ludwig sighed, breath rising in puffs of white in the frigid air. His nose and the high points of his cheeks had long since become numb. Despite the chill, a small crowd was gathered in front of the Neues Rathaus. Women and children waited for the clock to strike noon, when the bells of the Glockenspiel would toll and the painted figurines would dance the Schäfflertanz in tandem. The faces in the crowd were wearied and stern; the children miniature versions of their gloomy mothers.

Ludwig could still remember how it felt to watch the performance, bundled in a coat and hand-in-hand with his older brother, the both of them whooping with excitement when the life-sized knights jousted on horseback. He had once loved the sight, and had always cheered when the Bavarian knight emerged victorious. 

He couldn't recall exactly when he had become too old to enjoy watching the spectacle, but he could imagine that it had lost its luster six months after the outbreak of the war, when it first became clear that wartime would last longer than anyone could have ever expected. The entire affair seemed tawdry now.

He quickened past the crowd and welcomed the sight of his building rising only a half block away. He ignored the cold that made his knees ache and his legs stiff and ducked inside the complex. Two flights of stairs restored his pulse, but it was the sight of Feliciano idling in the corridor by his front door that made the warmth rise to his face.

"Feliciano?"

Feliciano looked up, and Ludwig watched the recognition dawn over his face, slow at first, then relief, a wave crashing down all at once. 

"Hello, Ludwig!"

"Why are you waiting here? It's so cold out, Feliciano." 

Although he only a shirt and vest, Feliciano shivered as if he had only just then noticed the weather. His lips were blue.

"I locked myself out." 

“Come inside, I’ll light a fire. Then we can figure out how to get you back in your own apartment.”

Feliciano was quick to step inside and make his way directly in front of the fireplace. Ludwig first set down the bag of groceries, then removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his shirt past his forearms. He added yesterday's newspaper to the kindling and set it alight, watching the flames grow for only a moment, before turning away. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Feliciano stick his hands out dangerously close to the fire and frowned. 

"Don't burn yourself," he called. "You cannot feel the heat when your fingers are cold, but you _will_ burn yourself if you are not careful."

But the warmth of the fire only made the tips of Feliciano's fingers grow plump and rosy again, and it didn't take long for his face to become equally warm and golden. 

"Ludwig, you worry too much! Look, I'm all better now!"

Ludwig couldn't bring himself to disagree with Feliciano's winning smile. 

"Yes, well, you will feel even better with a hot meal inside you. How long were you sitting outside my apartment?" 

"Oh, I don't know. First I woke up because it was too cold for me to sleep, and then I had a small breakfast. I tried to sleep again, but it was still too cold. I knocked on your door, but you weren't here— oh, and that's how I was locked out. While I was outside, I began to think that maybe you were still asleep, but it isn't like you to sleep until ten, is it?" Feliciano interrupted himself with a laugh. "Then I wondered if you were avoiding me. But that would be silly, wouldn't it? You've always been so nice to me, Ludwig. The only option left was that maybe that you weren't home. So I've been outside since around noon. I was locked out before I could even eat lunch! Can you believe it?"

A cursory glance at the clock on the mantle revealed it was a quarter past two. 

"We'll have to remedy that," Ludwig answered, and began to unpack the groceries from the bag. 

When he was certain Feliciano wasn't looking at him, distracted picking out a record, he allowed himself a smile.

Ludwig sliced cabbage into ribbons to the sound of Schubert. From the kitchen, he kept an eye on Feliciano, watching as he warmed his hands and rolling his eyes with fond exasperation when he popped a burnt finger into his mouth. 

The salty, meaty scent of sausage filled the air as Ludwig rendered the fat from a thin link to flavor a cabbage and potato stew. Every so often, he caught Feliciano sneaking furtive glances over his shoulder, and it wasn't long before he made his way from the fireplace to the kitchen.

Ludwig listened to the sound of Feliciano's footsteps approaching behind him, those fine Italian leather shoes _tap, tap, tapping_ on the hardwood. With every footstep, he became increasingly aware of Feliciano’s presence behind him. 

The touch of his hand on the small of his back, so light that he might have thought he was imagining it, knocked the breath from his lungs. It was all he could do to keep from gasping. 

"Oh, I like German food," Feliciano said, quietly. "I like pasta a lot more, but sausages taste good too."

Ludwig laughed— a short, humorless bark of laughter. He shook his head.

"If only you could taste a real German meal, Feliciano. A Christmas dinner, with duck and rabbit, potato dumplings, sausage stuffing with apples..." 

The thin cabbage broth began to look more and more pitiful. More than ever, though far from the first time, Ludwig longed for fried bread dumplings. His smile became sad, rueful. 

"And after dinner, fruitcake, made with nuts and fruit and real sugar, and coffee and plenty of glühwein. That's real German food." 

Quiet filled the space between them. Ludwig ignored the hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach in favor of diverting all his attention to the feeling of Feliciano's fingers on the small of his back.

"Ludwig,” he started. His voice was soft, tentative. "Do you think I can try all those foods you said one day?"

Ludwig didn't think of rations or food shortages. He thought of roasted meats and candied nuts and warm, hearty bread dumplings, and Feliciano sitting at the dining table beside him. His stomach twisted with more desire than hunger.

He cleared his throat.

"Of course, Feliciano. I'll see to it myself."

Feliciano beamed. His hand fell to his side, but the warmth remained where they had been connected. 

"For now, don’t worry, Ludwig. Cabbage soup with potatoes is okay too." 

* * *

The temperature only continued to drop as the sky grew dark. After Feliciano had complained that the windows in the kitchen allowed too much cold to enter the room, Ludwig had agreed, with only a little reluctance, to sit on the floor and eat in front of the warm fireplace. 

"I hate the cold," Feliciano said, dipping a crust of bread into his bowl of soup. "It reminds me too much of the mountains." 

Outside, the wind whistled and sent a noisy echo through the chimney, stirring the flames. The flickering golden light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows over Feliciano's face and transformed the rich auburn of his hair red. 

"I thought you came from the city," Ludwig said, surprised. 

A strange look crossed over Feliciano's expression, quick, fleeting, gone before Ludwig could identify it.

"That's right," he answered with a smile. It didn’t meet his eyes. "I was only talking about vacations in the mountains. Have you ever been to Italy, Ludwig?"

"No, I have not. I was going to, before..." Ludwig paused, then shook his head slowly. "That was a long time ago."

Feliciano understood, and his expression became thoughtful. He remained quiet a moment, before gazing into the fireplace with a distant look and a faint, sad smile. 

"Maybe one day we can go together, Ludwig. In the summer, when it is warm and there are flowers growing in the fields. That's when we will go."


	3. Chapter 3

Sometime during the handful of hours they had spent in front of the fireplace, talking, eating, and sitting in easy silence, the pale winter sunlight had disappeared beneath the horizon and given way to another bleak night. 

And Ludwig agreed, despite his initial misgivings, to help Feliciano break into his own apartment. 

In the corridor, he optimistically tried the doorknob. It was locked. 

“I did try that, you know. A few times, actually.”

Ludwig grimaced. “Of course.” 

“Let me try.”

Armed with a borrowed butterknife and a tiny screwdriver, Feliciano stepped forward and knelt in front of the door, setting to the task with single-minded determination. Ludwig watched him, following the deft movements of his fingers, observing him until his attention drifted and he found himself so taken by the look of concentration on Feliciano's face that he did not register the sound of high heels _click-click-click_ ing in their direction.

Their neighbor Frau Schultz strutted down the corridor in battered leather heels. Her confident gait stuttered to a halt when she noticed Feliciano and Ludwig kneeling in front of the door beside her own. She did nothing to mask her trepidation when she resumed walking past them. Ludwig watched her reach her own door, where she seemed to struggle with her keys, glowering down at them from underneath her lashes all the while. He could only narrowly refrain from rolling his eyes. 

Her suspicious glare flitted back and forth between them, until he cleared his throat and sternly greeted her, “Good evening, Frau Schultz.”

Beside him, Feliciano clicked his tongue in annoyance. Just as Ludwig began to fear that the door would never open and he was struck with the desperate idea to ask dyspeptic Frau Schultz for a hairpin, Feliciano cried _aha!_ and the door swung open.

Ludwig forgot all about Frau Schultz. 

“ _Finally,_ ” Feliciano sighed, and stood, straightening with a pop of his knees that went off like gunfire. "Come inside! You've never seen the inside of my apartment before."

Although the two apartments were adjacent, the arrangement of Feliciano's apartment was entirely different from his own. Ludwig was drawn to the only window in the living room, which faced the street overlooking the nearby Platz. The jagged Gothic spires of the Frauenkirche carved a space out from the gris-bleu skyline, illuminated by the faint incandescent glow of the street lamps below. The street was empty at that late hour, but at first light, the lane would be crowded with throngs of people on their way to stand in the early queues for the markets and soup kitchens. Ludwig's knees twinged at the reminder that he had stood for hours in an unmoving waiting line. His efforts had been graciously rewarded—before they set out to break in, he and Feliciano had each cut a hearty hunk of bread, slathered in butter, and ate accompanied by Chopin.

The skies opened and the rain began to fall in sheets, battering the windowpane relentlessly. A solitary woman appeared on the sidewalk, coasting along the opposite bank of the street, clutching the brim of her hat to protect her face from the unexpected storm.

Feliciano's soft, handsome face appeared in the dark reflection of the window. He placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, looking over his shoulder curiously. His touch was warm.

“Poor lady. I would hate to be in her place. This is terrible weather for a dress!”

Ludwig had very quickly learned that he would never be able to anticipate what Feliciano would say next. Amused, he exhaled sharply through his nose. 

"Terrible indeed."

"I really think this is the worst weather in the world."

“The winter last year was worse,” Ludwig disagreed, remembering the damp, wretched months he had spent in Berlin at the beginning of the year. “Although the weather has been worse than usual lately.”

“This weather is the worst,” Feliciano repeated. “Imagine catching your death from the cold. What a terrible way to die. Maybe not the worst...but it’s high on the list.”

Ludwig startled. 

“Why on earth would you ever think of such a thing?” 

The same reservation that came over Feliciano every time he spoke about his past passed over him then. He chewed on the inside of his lip, suddenly taciturn. 

Ludwig wondered about the nature of the thoughts that stormed inside his head to make his expressive eyebrows draw together into such a frown, and whether or not Feliciano was letting slip whatever it was that he hid with smiles that were always just a fraction too wide, a touch too forced. 

The strange look remained in his eyes until he sighed and looked down, starting with difficulty, as if he couldn't find the words he was searching for— or, much more likely, couldn't find a way to put into words the thoughts thundering inside his head. 

"Haven't you ever had that thought?" he finally asked, and Ludwig disliked something about the pained furrow of his eyebrows. "Not once, in the last four or five years, did it ever cross your mind?"

No," Ludwig answered, too quickly. “Of course not.” 

But his mind raced. He thought of Gilbert. He thought of the trenches he had escaped in exchange for an office in the Friedrichstadt. He remembered the violent crack of his dislocated elbow. 

He thought of Gilbert.

“No,” he repeated uncomfortably. “We were taught that it was the duty of all young men to fight and die, if they must. I knew that I would die for my country if they asked it of me. I wasn't afraid.”

"I was.”

The silence between them became heavy, suspended thick in the air. Ludwig reached for a cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match. His fingers trembled, but the wrinkle between his brows smoothed when he took a slow drag. Feliciano reached for the cigarette, and Ludwig, surprised, handed it to him. He blew a sweet, clove-scented cloud of smoke and a faint trace of his former smile returned.

"This reminds me of mornings in Italy, you know, with my brother and grandfather. We made coffee and ate warm bread and then they smoked together sometimes, just like this." He interrupted himself with a laugh. "Except with more yelling. Especially when grandpa woke up my brother with his singing."

Ludwig thought of Gilbert and smiled. "Your brother is not a morning person, is he?" 

"Not at all!" 

He hummed in acknowledgement and noticed the way Feliciano’s eyes widened. He thought nothing of it, until he continued to stare at him, mouth agape. Ludwig blinked. 

"What?"

"Do you like to sing?" Feliciano asked, so abruptly, that for just a moment he looked stunned, as if he had surprised himself with his own question. He certainly surprised Ludwig.

"No. I'm afraid I'm not exactly a singer."

The disdain for his own talents —or lack thereof— came across in his voice. 

"I have a hard time believing that!" 

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

"Well, it's just that you like music so much and you have a nice voice, so I thought that maybe, you know..."

He didn't hear the end of the sentence. 

"You think I have a nice voice?" 

Feliciano's cheeks colored. "I know, I know, it must sound silly coming from another man. But you have a wonderful baritone." He laughed, and his eyes shone in earnest. "I think you would sing beautifully."

Ludwig averted his gaze and ignored the hitch in his own breathing. 

"I'm afraid you would be placing money on a losing bet," he muttered.

If he sounded sullen, Feliciano was oblivious to it, as he was oblivious to the way each word he spoke threw Ludwig into turmoil. He searched for meanings that weren't there, for any elusive suggestions that Feliciano could be _different_ in the same that he was— that there was more to every word and that every brush of their shoulders and touch of their fingertips meant so much more than met the eye.

Yet Feliciano remained oblivious. 

"But you see, now I am certain you could sing!" 

He looked so pleased with himself that Ludwig couldn't bring himself to tell him to lower his voice before apoplectic Herr Braun pounded on their door in a fit of rage. 

“Why are you so convinced?” 

"My brother, Lovino, he would always say the same thing whenever I tried to get him to sing with me," he answered, before he deepened his voice into a clear imitation of someone else. " _I don't sing, Feliciano, knock it off, you bastard—!_ ”

The coffee seized in Ludwig's throat. He sputtered, caught between coughing and unexpected laughter. 

“—But I know that he could sing, because I would catch him singing in the garden when he thought I wasn't there, and sometimes he would sing when Antonio played the guitar too! So I am _certain_ you could sing too, Ludwig!" 

"I'm afraid that's where the similarities between me and your brother end," he insisted. "I can't sing, really. Who is Antonio?"

"He works with grandpa. Antonio started helping with the farming sometimes in the summer, since my grandpa has a bad knee. He fought with Garibaldi, you know. But anyway, Antonio's from Spain and he was only supposed to visit for the summer, but I secretly think he stayed for Lovino." 

Before Ludwig could ask even one of the many burning questions that suddenly sprang into his mind, Feliciano distracted him.

"You know, I miss gardening. I wish I could start a garden here," he said, more to himself than to Ludwig, thinking aloud. "It would be nice to have a garden here, don't you think? Even just some herbs, if only I could find them. But there are never any flowers in the market."

Ludwig looked to the frost-glazed window pane. "Perhaps things will be different in the spring."

"Things are always different in the spring," Feliciano said, with the exaggerated air of someone stating the obvious. "That’s when everything that died comes back to life."

Ludwig thought of the previous spring and wondered if it was really so simple. He had spent the first months of the year in Berlin. Winter had been bleak; the worst of all of them. The streets of Berlin had been quiet, haunted— even Leipziger Straße had been abandoned by the ministerial workers and became devoid of life. 

The day Ludwig left Berlin, the first rays of spring sunshine were coming to light and change was in the air. It was early March and there was word that there would be a new cabinet soon forming to replace the War Ministry, the Reichswehrministerium. The rumor had sparked a murmur of hope for new jobs and a new government. Food and clothing was costly, and a diet of turnips had done nothing to alleviate the widespread hunger in the city. But not even the promise of a new position in the ministry had been enough to keep him a day longer in Berlin. It was late in spring when he returned to Munich. 

Only a few months later, he met Feliciano in the stairwell.

The memory brought a faint smile to his face. The room was quiet, the space intimate between them, and without thinking, he asked, 

“Do you ever think of returning home?” 

The light fell from Feliciano's face. He remained quiet, wearing a troubled look. Ludwig immediately regretted his careless question.

"Munich is my home now," Feliciano said slowly. A moment later he added, "But I miss them. I write them letters every time I miss them. It isn't the same as talking to them, and it takes so long for my brother to reply. I think he forgets sometimes."

Feliciano's voice tapered into silence. Ludwig thought of the bulk of letters from Gilbert in his desk drawer and felt a stab of guilt for the ones that had gone unanswered. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. 

"What for? I don't even blame Lovino, really." 

Feliciano interrupted himself with a yawn. Ludwig pretended not to notice that his eyes were shiny with tears before he even opened his mouth. 

“And you? Do you have anyone to write to?”

“I don't write as often as I should,” Ludwig answered uncomfortably. “My grandfather died in '17. My brother Gilbert rarely ever stayed in one place long enough to post a reply to him, even before the war. But his most recent letters were all posted from the same address in Vienna. I’ll have to remember to write to him one of these days.”

Feliciano squeezed his hand. 

“I’m sure your brother would like that very much.”

* * *

Feliciano insisted he stay until the fire went out.

“Your apartment will be cold,” he reasoned. “Stay until the fire dies, at least.”

Ludwig put up very little resistance. 

Feliciano offered him the paper as he read a threadbare novel of his own, and Ludwig found that the daily print did very little to capture his attention as much as the changes in Feliciano's expressions as he read. His brows drew together in consternation and unfurled, his mouth twitched and pursed, and Ludwig watched him, enraptured, wondering if he was even aware his face was so divinely expressive.

At length, he tore his gaze away and forced his attention toward the paper, reading with escalating anxiety the events that had unfolded in Berlin over the course of the last few days. The Treaty of Versailles had only just been signed into effect, and radicals rushed the Reichstag a scant few days after. 

It was a miracle he had left Berlin when he did.

When the bells of the Frauenkirche began to toll, marking the hour, Ludwig counted each heavy clap of the bells, counting sixteen before the silence resumed. It was midnight. Ludwig wondered where the hours had passed. When he looked over his shoulder, Feliciano's eyes were closed and his chin tucked against his chest, which rose and fell in soft swells. The book slipped from his limp fingers and fell closed on his lap, revealing the cover. _Ἰλιάς_ , he read in foreign characters, and smiled. 

Feliciano sighed in his sleep, soft and sweet. The blanket fell from his shoulders and when he didn't move, Ludwig knew he was deep asleep. 

"Feliciano," he said quietly, placing a hand on his knee. 

He did not stir. Ludwig shifted him carefully, laying him onto the floor, considering, for just a moment, carrying him to sleep in his own bed. Feliciano's eyelids fluttered and Ludwig's breath hitched in his chest. 

His eyes followed the patterns of whorls in his hair, the wispy and overgrown tendrils that hung in heavy curls over his brow and fell to the nape of his neck. The loosened collar of his shirt exposed a sliver of warm olive-toned skin, golden even in the dead of winter.

Ludwig didn't dare touch him. He couldn't dream of waking Feliciano from his slumber even to carry him to bed. But when he stood, the old floorboards creaked under his shifting weight, and Feliciano woke slowly, blinking in a daze before gazing up at him with vulnerable confusion. 

"Where are you going?" he whispered. 

"It's late, Feliciano. I'm just going home."

Ludwig knew that it was his own wishful thinking, but he couldn’t help but think that Feliciano looked as if he wanted to protest— as if he was swallowing down a plea for Ludwig to stay.

"Okay," he said instead, quietly, and forced himself up. When he stumbled, he steadied himself with a hand on Ludwig's arm, and together they walked to the doorway. 

Ludwig took in the sight of Feliciano one last time— backlit by the sweet yellow lamplight, hair tousled and hanging in clusters of rich auburn curls over heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes. But it was his smile that made Ludwig pause at the door and stare at Feliciano's lips longer than he knew was decent. 

Where his mouth was bright and beaming in the day, a radiant grin that rivaled the sun, frequently accompanied with laughter, his smile now was soft, warm; the gentler light of the sun shining behind the moon. 

And Ludwig could not tear his gaze away. 

“Goodnight, Ludwig,” Feliciano murmured. There was a softness in the way the man spoke his name that made Ludwig’s hands clench into fists at his side. “See you in the morning.” 

For a moment, Ludwig couldn’t move. 

He was aware of his breathing, of the blood pulsing in his veins, the strange sensations of being alive, but Feliciano and his small, tender smile were all he could see, and all at once a terrible warmth and fullness flooded the hollow of his chest. 

When he mustered the voice to speak, terrified, it was quiet and small in comparison to the loudness echoing throughout his breast and the ringing in his ears. 

“Goodnight, Feliciano.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think! ❤️


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